


I'm Dreaming of an Orange Pancha Ganapati

by Doctor Caduceus (Lemniscate)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemniscate/pseuds/Doctor%20Caduceus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everything dreamed of in December is white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Dreaming of an Orange Pancha Ganapati

**Author's Note:**

> Up to 409, Brother's Keeper

It'd been weeks in this bloody ward, and Mohinder would've just broken out of there if he could figure out where his arms were. They were off behind him someplace, but every time he felt like he'd gotten a grip on where one was and tasked his drug-addled brain with searching for the other, he lost the first one again.

He was at least eighty, eighty-five percent sure his name wasn't Mister Ahmadi. For one thing, it seemed very odd that he would remember his fake first name, Mohinder, and not his real first name, because he hoped that his parents were not so cruel as to name him 'Mister.'

He was fairly certain that he'd gone in in November, because it was cold and ugly out when he'd gotten into New York, and the Christmas decorations were up. This was sort of sad in Texas, since it was hot and sandy and wretched. He wasn't sure if he was still in Texas, because all he saw were the same four white walls, white floor, and white ceiling, and the ridiculous hats that the nurse and the orderly were wearing when they wandered in to dose him again seemed to indicate that the calendar might've ticked over into December. Mohinder faded out of consciousness to someone singing.

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas…"

He faded in with his head resting on something far warmer than the cushioned floor he remembered, to the sound of the same song.

"…just like the ones I used to know… good morning, sleepy head," a rumbling baritone voice said to him, stroking his hair. Mohinder opened his eyes and looked up at whoever was singing to him, and there was Sylar (not wearing a ridiculous hat, thank the gods) tilting a snow globe back and forth. Mohinder chuckled dreamily.

"I know you," he mumbled. "But I don't celebrate Christmas… Immascientist."

Sylar chuckled, setting aside the snow globe.

"You are, a mad scientist, in fact. Happy Pancha Ganapati, then," Sylar said, reaching into the pocket of the lab coat he was wearing and pulling out a little figure of Ganesha and placing it on Mohinder's chest.

"Don't have anything orange…"

Sylar laughed again.

"Well, we have white, right?" he asked, then placed his hand on Mohinder's white straitjacket, and from his fingertips bright, vivid orange spread until it suffused every fiber, tangerine bright. Mohinder, in his drugged state, giggled cheerfully.

"Oh that's a wonderful present. Now we have Ganesha and orange," Mohinder murmured.

"And love, of course," Sylar added. "The reason for the season, unless I'm mistaken."

Mohinder grinned blearily.

"No, that's right," he confirmed. "Can I ask a question?"

"Sure," Sylar replied.

"My name's not Ahmadi, is it?"

"No," Sylar said. "Who told you that?"

"Didn't think so," Mohinder said firmly, or as firmly as he could in his fuzzy state. "Did you say that we had love? What kind?"

Sylar's hand paused in its repeated meander through Mohinder's curls.

"You're all the family I have left," Sylar finally said. "Let's leave it at that."

Perhaps it was the drugs, but for that evening, Mohinder did.  



End file.
